


Car Crash Hearts.

by BrookieBaine



Category: Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Frerard, M/M, Multi, Peterick, brendon urie/andy hurley, treckett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrookieBaine/pseuds/BrookieBaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete's made a huge mistake, which isn't much of a surprise-- but this time his mistake heavily effected someone other than himself.<br/>Pete was just trying to kill himself. He wasn't trying to destroy someone else's life as well.<br/>When he got into his car heavily intoxicated and full of pills, he meant to drive into the lake and end his life.<br/>He never meant to almost kill Patrick, a boy with bright eyes and a friendly smile.<br/>He didn't mean to collide into the taxi the other boy was in, causing major trauma to the head and permanent memory loss that wiped three years from Patrick's life.<br/>Pete never meant for any of this to happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The second time Pete sees Patrick.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress!~ I'll be adding chapters as I go, and I promise to at least have one chapter out a week! I don't even know where I'm going with this, to be honest. I have a vague idea, but not a full one. This is the first fic I've written in a while, and I hope you all can enjoy it! Just as a little warning-- there are mentions of suicide and self harm.

It’s not the first time Pete’s seen Patrick, but it certainly feels like it is.  
Pete knows it’s not the first time because that’d been when the kid’s face was on tv. His face before the accident. A picture undoubetdly a few years old; face chubby and fair hair tucked under a ridiculous (ironic?) trucker hat. His face was on the screen for a reason.  
There’d been a terrible accident.  
Both of the boys involved.  
One of them the culprit.  
'Local teenage boy run off the road by intoxicated driver.'  
It was Pete. He was the intoxicated driver. He was the crazy, manic depressive little shit that nearly killed what most would call 'the town angel'.  
Even when Pete wasn’t trying he was royally messing things up— not only for himself, but everyone involved.

—-----------------------------

So, the second time Pete sees Patrick, everything’s a whole lot less dramatic. No crying from his mother while Pete numbly stares at the tv screen, no frantic shouting from his parents,  
"Do you realize what you’ve done?"  
"Can you even comprehend the outcome of your selfish choice?"  
"Do you realize you could have killed not only yourself, but another person?"  
however, the sighting takes place in the same atmosphere.  
Northwestern Memorial hospital, Chicago.  
Pete’s ambling the blindingly white sterilized hospital halls at 4 AM because that’s what normal people do, right? Except Pete’s not normal, and neither is being up at 4 am. Especially for a kid his age.  
Only 19.  
Then again, Pete’s never exactly felt much his age.  
He’s always felt a bit older. Always wished he was so maybe he would die faster.  
However, if there’s one thing pete’s learned, it’s that life never gives you what you want, and that’s exactly what he’s thinking about as he subconsciously meanders towards the hospital’s cafeteria. He’s thinking about all the times he wanted to kiss someone but they didn’t want to kiss him, he’s thinking about every time he’s realized a band he loves is playing in town a day too late.  
He’s thinking about every god damn pill swallowed on the night of the accident, every god damn chug of alcohol, every god damn wrong turn in his god damn shitty fucking car; every ice-slick road he skidded on, every lamp post just barely missed…  
The lake. How could he miss driving his car into the dumb fucking lake?  
How could he miss his biggest target and end up swerving into another car?  
The car patrick was in. A taxi from patrick’s friend’s house.  
Patrick just wanted to go home. Pete ruined it. Pete wouldn’t let him.  
Life never gives you what you want.  
"Hey!"  
Pete’s hearing things. His insomnia has driven him to hearing voices in his head.  
Great. Just what he needs.  
"Hey, man!"  
…Or maybe he hasn’t quite reached that level of insanity just yet.  
Pete slowly turns on his heel and peeks his head through the open doorway of the cafeteria.  
And it’s not the first time Pete’s seen Patrick, but God, does he wish it was. He wishes Patrick was here for reasons unrelated to him. He wishes, he wishes, he wishes.  
Life can’t give him what he wants.  
Pete swallows a lump forming in his throat and manages an awkward little half-wave.  
He tries not to notice how sweet the kid looks just sitting there, a cup of ride pudding sitting half-eaten on the otherwise lonesome table.  
Pete realizes they’re kind of staring at each other, and Patrick’s got this little smile on his face like he thinks Pete’s going to be his friend. He doesn’t know what Pete’s done.  
Not yet. not yet.  
He will, though. eventually.  
Pete’s not going to be his friend. Not now, not then.  
Not ever.  
But Patrick looks painfully hopeful, like the nerdy kid in school waiting for someone to notice their cool new shoes.  
Finally, Pete clears his throat and, wow, that doesn’t help much— everything feels dry. His whole life feels dry. Impersonal.  
Everything is impersonal now. Maybe it's always been like that.  
"…You’re up late."  
It”s all Pete can think of to say. Then, Patrick does this heart-breaking thing where he furrows his brows and makes a big show of checking his phone, like he doesn’t know it’s some god awful hour.  
Patrick laughs and shakes his head, and murmurs something like, 'I didn’t even know...'  
He knew. He just wants to start a conversation.  
He wants to let Pete start some playful banter about sleeping and hospital hours and it’s not going to happen.  
Pete just nods briskly and steps a little more into the frame, quickly shoving his hands into his pockets.  
With the hoodie he’s wearing the sleeves ride up a bit.  
If he doesn’t hide his hands, scarring from the crash is visible.  
Patrick blinks, smile never wavering. He lifts up the little cup of rice pudding, nods his head towards Pete—  
"Want some?"  
and Pete pulls his lips into a tight line, slowly shakes his head 'no'.  
His hands ball into tight fists in his pockets.  
Patrick just shrugs and then dips a finger into the pudding, licking the substance from his finger.  
"It’s pretty cool they leave the fridge open for us people up so late, y’know? It’s awfully considerate, I think. I mean, they lock away the, uh… Cutlery and such.."  
Patrick makes a sour face, like he’s realizing he might have offended Pete. Maybe Pete’s here because of self harm. Maybe be’s here because he tried to slash his wrists into pretty red ribbons with a knife.  
…That’s not why he’s here, though. Pete knows. Patrick doesn’t.  
But then Patrick smiles again. “And like… I always thought rice pudding was for old people, but being here— I can’t get enough.”  
Another heavy silence.  
Almost heavier than Pete’s desperate feeling of anxiety and guilt.  
Patrick cants his head, and something in his eyes twinkles, and his glasses gleam in the dim cafeteria light,  
and Pete really wishes he would of died succesfully.  
"You should try it some time, dude. I’m Patrick, by the way—"  
"I know."  
And maybe Pete shouldn’t of said that. Patrick looks confused and Pete can’t even explain himself.  
But Pete would rather Patrick confused than know the truth.  
He leaves Patrick in the cafeteria by himself and maybe hates himself a little for it despite not wanting anything to do with Patrick.  
Patrick just seemed really, really lonely.  
Pete understood that. He was lonely, too.


	2. Two days, sixteen hours.

Pete hasn't seen Patrick in exactly two days and sixteen hours. It's not like he's counting the time or anything.  
Yes, he is. It's not because he cares, though.  
…Yes he does. Pete cares a lot.  
He's not supposed to care and he does. Pete's not supposed to want to see Patrick, but he wants to. He should stay out of his way, never show his face around the other boy ever again, spare Patrick the trouble; but Pete has some stupid, deep longing within him to see Patrick.  
All he can think about is how alone Patrick seemed that night.  
Pete can only imagine how lonely he must be.  
Patrick can't remember anyone or anything from the last few years. Pete heard some people around the hospital talking, and apparently the crash caused some kind of permanent memory loss.  
His mind was swept clean of three whole years.  
Pete destroyed three years of Patrick's life.  
Three years of friends, family members, memories.   
Pete didn't know he was capable of that kind of destruction and thinking about it makes him want to puke.   
He's a bit of a monster. He doesn't know how to deal with that realization yet.  
It's been two weeks since the crash but everyone's still talking about it. Pete doesn't have very many friends, but the friends he does have call every once in a while.  
Y'know, to check in.  
They care enough about Pete to make up for his complete and utter disinterest in himself.  
One of his friends, an overly energetic kid with too much to say and not enough time in the day, calls almost every hour.   
His name's Brendon.  
Pete loves the kid, but God, does he wear him out. It's like having a clingy little brother that wants to go everywhere with you.   
You wouldn't believe the things Brendon finds important enough to call at 6 AM when Pete's just about to drift off into a mediocre sleep.   
Brendon calls again, but this time it's at a reasonable hour; 5 PM.  
"Hey, buddy!"  
Over Brendon's chipper voice is just a bit of clatter-- he's probably just had dinner with his family and now they're cleaning up in the kitchen. Pete can imagine Brendon standing outside the kitchen door, leaning against the hallway wall, and… Playing the ukulele? Pete can hear the familiar plucking from the other end. Brendon mutters something to himself under his breath and plucks again, humming a little melody.  
He must be cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear.  
Pete has to smile a little bit because he's always found Brendon's ability to multitask kind of amazing.   
Brendon literally puts Pete's everything to shame; music skills, grades, socializing… Everything.  
All that, and Brendon's only sixteen.  
"Hey, Bren. Composing an upbeat song about my tragic life?"  
Brendon makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and mumbles,  
"I've already got a whole albums worth about your sob stories. It should be released some time next year, early January. My favorite song on the album is the song about that one time your dad walked in on you jerking off."  
Pete smiles again. Brendon never skips a beat in their dry-humored conversations.  
Then Pete laughs because he can hear Brendon's mom yelling something about 'watching his language' over the clanking of dishes, and he can practically hear Brendon rolling his eyes as he shuffles away from the kitchen and… Steps outside, probably. The backyard. Pete can hear the swift sliding of the glass door, Brendon shutting it behind himself.   
Pete moves to the window in his small hospital room and squints into the distance; he knows he can't see Brendon's house from here, but that doesn't stop him from trying. "So what's going on in the world of Brendon, then?"  
Pete loves asking Brendon this question, because Brendon makes loud sighing noises every time, and he always says something dumb like, "What isn't happening in the world of Brendon?"   
but this time, it's different. Brendon doesn't say anything witty, he just gets kind of quiet, and quietly asks,  
"I called to talk about you, man. Not to talk about me. You doin' alright?"  
and suddenly Pete wishes he didn't say anything. Pete wishes he didn't pick up the phone. Pete wishes he didn't have a phone.  
For a second, one insane, bright second of sheer, stupid brilliance, he considers opening the window and chucking his cellular device across the hospital parking lot.  
He doesn't want Brendon to ask how he's doing. He doesn't want anyone asking how he's doing.  
He knows Brendon cares, and that's nice and everything, but Pete doesn't want sympathy. Knows he doesn't deserve it.  
Pete almost wants to tell Brendon to go fuck himself, but he's not ready to take the transformation into full time monster. He doesn't want to destroy anyone else; just himself.  
Pete exhales a quiet sigh and hopes it isn't audible. "…Yeah. I'm holding up alright."  
Pete's coming apart at the seams.   
Brendon doesn't need to know.  
…Pete gets the feeling that he knows, though. Everyone knows.  
It makes Pete furious.  
There's a moment of silence between the two close friends, and all Pete can hear is the cold, chilly gust of Chicago air, the shrill barking of some dog in the distance,  
the sounds of the world.  
Pete closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the cool glass window and tries hard to imagine he's not in the hospital. He tries to imagine he's there with Brendon, and that none of this ever happened. If there's one thing Pete wishes more than death, it's maybe that he could go back in time, try being a little kid again. Try his hand at innocence one more time.  
Just one more time.  
He's interrupted from his thoughts when Brendon clears his throat and starts strumming the ukulele again-- this time in a more slow, relaxed rhythm.  
"Let me come see you some time, huh?"  
Pete huffs out a short breath and suddenly grows tense; as if Brendon can sense the shift in attitude he quickly pipes up,  
"C'mon! I'm, like… Your closest friend. I'm the only one who puts up with your self-loathing bullshit; don't you think the least you could do for me is let me come see you?"  
Pete wishes Brendon was in the wrong so he could hang up… But Brendon is right. Brendon's always been there for him, and Pete, despite everything, has always let the younger boy see his terrible side, his life changing mistakes; and Pete's been keeping Brendon from visiting him. He keeps putting it off, telling Brendon he doesn't need to be here.  
It's shitty for Pete to deny his friend. He knows that. Pete doesn't want to be shitty to Brendon.  
"Not only am I your closest friend, I am your cutest friend. Don't you want to see my gorgeous face?"  
Pete's laughing again, and he doesn't want to be laughing, he doesn't feel like he deserves to laugh-- but Brendon just drags what small amounts of happiness he has out of him. Pete loves and hates Brendon for that. Pete wants to be 100% depressed, but can only be about half-way there when him and Brendon talk.   
Pete bites at his bottom lip and shuffles a bit on the squeaky linoleum floor. Then, although Brendon can't see, he slowly nods his head.   
And something hits him hard.  
He misses Brendon. He needs Brendon.  
Pete's bottom lip trembles a bit and he tries to hold himself together as he whispers,  
"Please come see me."  
and it sounds so stupidly desperate of Pete, and his voice sounds hoarse and broken, and he's so weak. He's so fucking weak, he hates it. Pete doesn't want to be weak.  
Brendon doesn't question his wavering voice. He knows Pete is upset, and he knows Pete hates it when people baby him.  
Brendon just tells Pete he'll come visit him in a few days.   
Pete tells Brendon he loves him, and he means it. Brendon says he loves him, too. Pete knows Brendon means it.  
Then, they hang up on each other. Pete's the first to hang up, he doesn't even say good bye; but he knows Brendon won't get mad. He knows Pete isn't being rude. Pete's just not a good bye kind of person.  
That's why he never left a suicide note. If he would of succesfully killed himself, there would be no explination, no apparent cause left behind.  
Now his entire life feels like one entire, prolonged good bye. He just hasn't left yet.  
He wants to leave, though. He wants to leave so bad.  
Pete finally opens his eyes again and glances at the clock.  
Two days, 17 hours since he last saw Patrick.  
Pete lets his gaze travel back outside, and for a moment he looks down at the pavement.  
…He can't believe the hospital put him in a room with a window that opens.  
Pete thinks hard about jumping. Leaving.  
With his fingers edging towards the latch, he considers opening the window, splattering his disgusting, stinky insides all over the cement.  
But then he catches sight of Patrick sitting under a tree near the hospital entrance. Patrick's got his eyes closed and his chin angled up, smiling up at the sky like it's a beautiful Summers day, like nothing's wrong, like everything is right.  
It's freezing outside. It's just about to rain. The sky looks just about as depressed as Pete feels; gray and heavy with grief.   
Patrick's smiling like it's the best damn day of his life.  
Pete's fingers fall from the latch.  
Maybe he won't leave just yet.


	3. The boy with flowers in his eyes.

Three days of Pete avoiding Patrick like the plague.  
Three whole, long, miserable days.  
…That's not to say Pete hasn't seem him around, though. Pete generally sees Patrick between the hours of 1-2 P.M., when his mother comes to visit.  
Is it weird of Pete to wait around the hospital halls, hoping to catch a glance of the younger boy as he meets with his mother?  
Yes.  
Does that stop Pete from doing it?  
Of course not.  
Pete lingers behind doors or ducks behind water fountains, and he'd give a shit about the strange looks received from doctors and nurses alike if he cared even a little bit about his reputation.  
Pete stopped caring about anything having to do with himself a long time ago.  
Despite not having talked to Patrick for five days, he feels oddly connected to him.  
Pete doesn't know what it is-- can't put his finger on it.  
He just wants to protect Patrick from every little thing that ails him.  
However, if Pete really were to do that, that'd mean he'd need to keep the other boy away from him.  
Pete is possibly the worst thing that happened to Patrick, and potentially the worst thing that could happen to him again.  
So Pete admires from afar, he watches, he listens; he observes the boy and tries to feel even just a fraction of the happiness he radiates. Pete doesn't know Patrick personally, but he wishes he could be like him.  
Pete wants to feel that joy. He wants to still have some hope inside left to spare.  
Some nights Pete thinks about kissing Patrick.  
Pete bets that he tastes like too-sweet coffee and admiration.  
Pete wants to taste him.  
He never will, though. And Pete can't believe he has to keep telling himself he never will. He can't believe he keeps forgetting what situation they're in, how they got here, and how bad everything is.  
Pete's just glad the news stations never released his own face or name. He's glad he was given a lovely pseudonym-- 'Intoxicated Driver'.  
At least then Patrick never has to know it was Pete that caused all this.  
If Pete was careful enough, he could let himself get close.  
He could get close. He could feel Patrick's warmth for himself. Pete's seen the way Patrick looks at him when they're across the room from each other. Longing, shy. Sweetly sad.  
But Pete's a tornado, and he's bound to destroy anything he comes in contact with-- he can't go messing around with fragile boys with flowers in their eyes.  
Pete won't allow himself to pluck every petal, one by one. He'd already shaken Patrick once.  
He couldn't do it again. He won't do it again.

\---

On Sunday, Brendon visits.  
It's just after morning church services, so Pete fully anticipates Brendon showing up in worship attire; slacks, oversized suit jacket rummaged from some thrift store pile because that's all the Urie's can afford, slightly wrinkled button-up, bible in hand.  
And, ahh. Pete anticipated correctly. He watches his friend amble down the long hall from the front entrance, usually mussy brunette hair slicked to the side in a neat fashion.  
Pete can't help but grin. He has to grin. Brendon looks impossibly small in the ill-fitted suit and he knows Brendon detests church and it's all just so cute, in a way; Brendon's rebellious little attitude towards religion and the like.  
Pete's grinning so hard by the time Brendon's in front of him, he actually makes a snarky little comment about it;  
"Ew, you're blinding me with your freakishly large, white teeth... Cut that shit out!"  
and then they're both laughing, and for a moment things feel normal. Mundane. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
They're two friends in the hallway at school, joking around. Not two friends in the hallway of some hospital.  
But then reality crashes down and Pete remembers where they are. His grin pulls back into a small, reserved smile.  
Nothing about this is normal.

\---

"…And then he lifted up his skirt and literally showed his ass. His pale, hairy ass."  
Pete wrinkles his nose and scratches at the back of his head. He's really only paying half-attention to Brendon's weird story-- apparently some kid from their school cross-dressed on Friday in protest of… Something. Pete doesn't remember.  
And then, during English class, he walked right up to the front of the room and flashed his ass.  
Which got him beat up by half the football team after classes.  
Pete swears the most interesting things happen when he's not around.  
Pete picks at a long blade of grass and slowly begins to dissect it down the middle, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  
Brendon can tell Pete's not listening so he leans over in the grass and pinches Pete's thigh.  
Pete winces and throws a half-hearted glare in Brendon's direction, but the brunette doesn't seem to mind his sulky look and continues,  
"Anyways, so now he's gotta have his eyebrow stitched up, 'cause I guess the dudes from the team were kicking him pretty hard when he was down, and I heard he was 'sposed to come here, to this hospital-- you seen him?"  
Brendon lifts his head and scans the hospital's garden like he might just catch a glimpse of the student he's referring to if he looks hard enough.  
Pete shrugs and keeps his eyes glued to the piece of grass in his fingers.  
"I don't know anything about cross-dressing boys with stitches, man."  
Brendon grins and nudges Pete's side with a bony elbow, "Sounds like something someone would write a punk song about, huh? Cross-dressing boys with stitches?" and pete has to lift his head to give his friend an incredulous look.  
Brendon is, without a doubt, the most ridiculous person he knows.  
The way the younger boy waggles his brows and widens his eyes throws Pete into a small laughing fit, and he's doubling over and clutching at his stomach, and man. He doesn't remember the last time he laughed so hard. But it feels good.  
Pete knows he'll regret laughing so much later on when he's alone and picking at himself, but at the moment, it feels nice. It feels genuine.  
Soon Brendon's giggling and leaning into Pete a bit, his arm thrown casually over his troubled friend's shoulder.  
"…I think I've heard a song like that before."  
The voice coming from behind them is light, playful. Both Pete and Brendon sit up, and Pete's dabbing at his teary eyes, laughter subsided into small, sporadic chuckles, and Brendon turns around in the grass to look up at who's talking to them, and…  
Oh.  
Brendon's completely quiet. Pete can sense it's not a typical kind of silence-- it's heavy, unexpected.  
Nervous.  
It takes a moment to register with Pete, but finally, as he swivels in the grass, he connects the voice with a face…  
And it's Patrick, looking just as lonely as the night they talked, and suddenly Pete is teary-eyed again, but for different reasons.  
It's just… It's in the way Patrick stands there. It's in the way he rings his hands, it's in the way he twists the hem of his too small argyle sweater with anxious fingers, the way he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, self-consciously tugs at his beanie.  
It's in the way he fidgets, and shuffles from foot to foot, and generally looks like he feels he has no idea what he's doing. That's what makes Pete want to cry. He looks so alone in everything he does and Pete is willing to bet he wasn't like this before.  
Pete is willing to bet he put that discomfort in the other boy.  
The thing that absolutely kills Pete is when Patrick lifts his shaky fingers to the violent bruising at his forehead. It peeks out a bit from the beanie tugged down tight on his head.  
Pete is willing to bet he wears that hat to try and hide what he can of the car crash evidence.  
Patrick catches Pete staring at his forehead and he goes bright red. Pete quickly looks away and lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.  
"…A song like what before?"  
Brendon asks, blinking up at Patrick and swallowing. Hard.  
Pete can tell from the look on Brendon's face that he recognizes Patrick.  
Everyone recognizes Patrick now. People around town will always know Patrick as the boy who got crashed into, and everyone will shove their sympathy down his throat, and Patrick will politely accept it, Pete can tell, and he's so mad about that.  
Pete's so mad that this is all his fault.  
"Y'know. The, uh… Like… The thing about cross-dressing boys and stitches.. The…"  
Patrick clears his throat and gestures wildly in the air with his hands, face still red and eyes giving away the fact that he's meekly hoping Brendon and Pete will remember the conversation they were having moments ago so he can join in on it, too.  
Brendon assumes Pete isn't going to say anything because he's gone unusually pale and quiet, so the brunette boy takes it upon himself to laugh and point up at Patrick, a grin tugging at his full lips.  
"Oh! Yeah! I mean, sounds like something The Ramones might come up with, right?"  
And the way Brendon just invites Patrick into the conversation is so beautiful, Pete can't even bear to look up at Patrick, how he's probably smiling and nodding his head, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels a bit.  
Pete can't be here. He can't listen to this conversation. He might throw up.  
He can't get himself connected to Patrick.  
…Pete looks up at Patrick despite knowing he shouldn't and he immediately regrets doing so. He can hardly hear what Brendon and Patrick are going off about-- he barely realizes they're introducing themselves and making obscure punk music references, laughing, smiling. All Pete focuses on is the way Patrick sits down and envelopes himself in the conversation.  
Patrick seems so comfortable like this. Pete notices the way his face lights up as him and Brendon begin to share thoughts on music. Patrick just… He blends seamlessly into his words, like he found some form of confidence. He seems so fluent, so natural.  
Pete feels like he's watching something beautiful happen, something he's not worthy of witnessing.  
He's watching the flowers in Patrick's eyes bloom, and when Patrick gives him this little side glance, just that small inkling of acknowledgment-- Pete feels like he's been punched in the gut.  
And he has to leave.  
He can't be here.  
Pete quickly stands on his feet and mumbles out a soft 'excuse me', to which Brendon only waves his hand nonchalantly in the air-- Brendon's in full-on passionate-about-music talk mode, and there's no stopping his mouth once it's started moving. Pete tries not to notice how sad Patrick looks when he leaves.

\---

Pete waits around the hospital for a good hour. He keeps looking out the window into the garden, hoping to see Patrick gone.  
Finally, both boys stand from the grass, and Brendon's scribbling down something on a little scrap of paper he's torn from his bible, and shit. Shit, shit, shit. Pete knows Brendon is giving Patrick his number.  
Pete knows they're becoming friends.  
Neither of them should get involved with Patrick. No one in Pete's life should get tangled in Patrick's.  
Pete grinds his teeth discreetly and shakes his head, narrowing his eyes at Brendon.  
At that moment, Pete hates Brendon for being so god damn outgoing.  
But the way Patrick looks when Brendon hands him his number… The amazed, shocked look on his face, how he looks up at Brendon like, 'You're giving this to me?'  
it makes Pete's glare soften and his heart drop.  
Pete's never seen someone look so earnest and humble before. He's never seen it, and it's so sickeningly endearing, and Pete wished he could be like that. He wished he could find joy in such a simple, simple thing.  
Then Brendon smiles and nudges Patrick, his lips moving but Pete unable to read what he's saying.  
After a few moments they part and Brendon's making his way back into the hospital's main room.  
Pete doesn't know what he's expecting Brendon to say as he walks over, but he knows he isn't prepared for what comes out of Brendon's mouth as he claps his hand down on Pete's shoulder and murmurs,  
"Don't you dare ignore him, Pete. Don't you dare do that."  
and Brendon's giving him this intense look. It makes Pete feel shy all of a sudden-- ashamed, even.  
Pete doesn't know what to say.  
After a moment, Brendon gives a little smile and lets his hand travel up to cup Pete's cheek. He leans in a bit and gives a soft, affectionate kiss to his cheek, not even caring who sees, or who might be staring, or wondering. That's just how Brendon is.  
Then, he's gone. Pete watches Brendon leave, watches him disappear out the entrance and into the real world.  
Pete doesn't know how to feel anymore, so he decides to feel nothing at all-- he goes back to his room and sleeps the rest of the day away, coming down from multiple nights spent restless and awake.  
He thinks he'll be safe from all of this in a comatose sleep.  
It's funny, though-- all he does is dream about Patrick.


	4. Running away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the longest chapter yet! Hope you guys like it!~

It's approximately 2:16 AM on a Monday night and Pete's wide awake. Ever since he got put on his new antidepressants, some little blue pills with a horrendously long name he's yet to learn to pronounce, he's been up at the strangest hours.  
Not like that's much different than before; Pete's always had trouble sleeping.  
Pete's convinced he has insomnia and about a thousand other mental disorders, but his parents think otherwise-- they always think otherwise. To their credit though, the nineteen year old boy has this problem where any time he learns about a new mental disorder, he's positive that he has it.  
...Is that a mental disorder? Learning about things that might be wrong with you and then instantly thinking, yeah, let me add that to the mountain of reasons-why-my-whole-life-is-one-big-failure?  
Pete's gonna google that when he gets back to his hospital room. He swears to God he is.  
But right now he needs to take a piss, and the closest open bathroom in the hospital at this hour is in the West corridor.  
Pete sighs and scrubs a hand over his tired, tired eyes as he drags his feet across the floor.

He hasn't stopped thinking about what Brendon said to him the other day.  
"Don't you dare ignore him, Pete."  
That's all Pete's done, though. Ignore Patrick. Pete doesn't even like passing Patrick in the halls anymore; if he sees the other boy headed his way he makes a sharp turn down the nearest hallway.  
Luckily for Pete, hospitals have a lot of hallways. The whole place seems like one never ending maze crammed full of dying bodies, vaguely disgusting cafeteria food, and doctors who think they know better when really, maybe they know as little as everyone else.  
Pete thinks being a doctor is a lot like being an actor. A con artist, even. Pumping already dead people full of things to make them just a little less dead, a little less comatose, and what good does that do in the end?? The doctors want the money of grieving families. They want green in their pockets at the cost of making gullible saps believe there's a little less red on their hands.  
Then again, Pete's always been a little paranoid, a little cynical.  
Pete's probably borderline insane, and he knows it. (Add that to The List. All capitals because it's super official. You know. The List. The mountain. The reasons why his life is one big failure.)  
He looks for the worst in everything and everyone. He's always been suspicious.  
That's why he's confused about Patrick. That's one of the reasons he wants to stay away.  
Maybe, just maybe, Patrick is proof that not everyone is so terrible and greedy.  
Pete's scared about the possibility of that realization and he doesn't want to think about it.  
Yet here he is, thinking about it just as he reaches the outside of the bathroom. Pete literally has zero control over his troublesome, hyperactive brain. (See again; The List.)

Pete's got his hand on the knob of the bathroom door but stops himself from actually turning it because he, honest to God, can hear the faint murmur of a scratchy voice singing show tunes from inside, and Pete's not crazy enough to be hearing voices yet, he went over that about a week ago.  
Maybe tonight's the night Pete goes full bat-shit crazy, though.  
Or maybe there's a ghost in the hospital that really likes broadway.  
That wouldn't surprise Pete, actually. Although the thought of walking in on a ghost does scare him a bit.  
With widened eyes and shaky hands, Pete quietly turns the knob and creaks the door open.  
And okay, it's totally a ghost.  
...No. Actually, no. It's not. It's just someone pale enough to be a ghost.  
The kid is literally standing in nothing but boxers and some dumb, faded Madonna tee, and he's got one leg covered in shaving cream, foot balanced on the huge sink so he can get a better angle as he...  
Shaves. He's shaving. The kid is shaving his legs and Pete swears he really is so pale, he goes a bit blind looking at his skin. He's got a cigarette dangling from his lips (Possibly glossed? They look super shiny.) and he's humming 'All That Jazz' to himself as if he didn't just hear Pete enter the bathroom.

Then, Pete realizes something. This is the kid Brendon was talking about; the one who cross-dressed at school and got beat up. Pete can see the stitching along his eyebrow and the bruises on his delicate, soft looking skin.  
Pete is almost certain he knows him personally, like he has a class with him or something. What's his name? Gerald? Gerome?

No, wait. It's Gerard.

"Be a pal and pass me the shaving cream, huh? I missed this fuckin' spot above my knee and it's driving me insane. I gotta get it."  
Gerard doesn't even look up from his leg when he talks-- he just lets out a small huff and leans up a bit, hands on his hips, foot still balanced on the sink. He's observing his freshly shaved leg, running a long finger against the smoothness.  
...Is Pete dreaming? What is going on?  
Are the meds making him hallucinate?  
Pete just stands in the doorway and continues to gape at Gerard, entirely confused as to how this is even happening.  
Pete looks around. Where the hell are the hospital staff? Pete's nearly 100% positive patients aren't supposed to have sharp objects, let alone smoke on the premises. Pete tells him so.  
Gerard just rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before leaning over and grabbing the shaving cream for himself. He nearly knocks himself off kilter in the process but recovers quickly.  
Then, he looks Pete straight in the eye and deadpans,  
"Good for nothin', Wentz. Can't even hand me a god damn can of shaving cream without having to say something."  
And Pete decides maybe he likes Gerard a little. He suddenly feels oddly comfortable in this out of place situation.  
Anyone else would probably walk away, leave the bathroom-- Pete doesn't, though. He goes into one of the stalls, takes a leak, flushes, washes his hands, and then takes a seat right on the floor. He watches the raven-haired boy spray some more shaving cream above his knee, watches the way his pink tongue darts out to touch his upper lip, caught up in concentration as he carefully runs the razor along the spot he mentioned moments ago.

Tonight is definitely the night Pete goes full bat-shit crazy, and he doesn't even seem to mind.

They flow into conversation with quick succession. Pete assumes it's because they're both pretty out of their minds.  
Shared insanity is really intimate when you think about it.

"They got you pretty bad, dude."  
Pete nods his head in Gerard's direction. Gerard simply scoffs and leans forward towards the mirror, inspecting the little cuts along his face as he purses his lips.  
"Please. Those dip-shits did me a favor. Do you see how hot I look all beat up?" Gerard brings his leg down from the sink and turns to Pete, glancing down at him with his hands on his hips. Gerard can see Pete trying to bite back a smile as he murmurs, "So fuckin' hot, Gerard. It's taking everything within me not to suck your dick this very moment."  
Gerard flashes this toothy, face-splitting grin while flipping his long hair over his shoulder, and pete can't pretend he doesn't want to smile anymore.

\---

After a little chatting, Pete manages to find out exactly why Gerard was cross-dressing. As far as Pete can understand, it was an act of defiance against the norms of gender roles and shaming of gender fluidity-- a way to stand up and say, hey, I'm gonna wear whatever the fuck I want and not care about your gender based bullshit. In Gerard's exact words,  
"The clothes aren't male or female. I fuckin' bought 'em. The clothes are /mine/."  
Gerard mumbles this around his fourth cigarette, and Pete's amazed at how Gerard acts so nonchalant, so unfazed; like what he just said isn't one of the wisest things Pete's ever heard, like the words were as light as the ash he just tapped out the open window into the night air.  
Pete can't believe he hasn't talked to this kid sooner.  
Not like he ever has much of a chance to chat with him; turns out they don't have any classes together. Pete just notices him from around the drama department. Apparently Gerard does most of the costuming and makeup for their school events, and while Pete's only attended one school affiliated show, a talent show back in his Junior year that Brendon won when he was only a Freshman, Pete's sure the guy is great at what he does. He seems passionate, determined.  
He has a lot of confidence, which Pete happens to lack.  
Pete digs it. He's easy to talk to, and Pete finds it hard to talk to most people.

For a while there's a bit of silence. It's not uncomfortable, though. Gerard's leaning out the window and Pete's still sitting on the floor, counting the bathroom tiles in his head and trying to internally calculate how many tiles there must be in the whole hospital. Pete does that a lot. He likes to count. Makes him feel calm.  
"You ever talk to him?"  
Pete blinks as he's shaken from his thoughts and leans his head on the wall, peering up at Gerard. He squints his eyes and racks his brain trying to think of who he's referring to.  
It only takes Pete a moment to realize he's talking about Patrick. Pete doesn't want to talk about Patrick, though. He tries to stay looking innocent, unknowing.  
As if Gerard can sense this he looks down at Pete and gives him a dull, bored stare, "Don't gimme that confused look. You know who I mean. The kid-- Patrick."  
Gerard is so not the type to play that beat-around-the-bush shit. Pete can tell. 

At just the direct mention of Patrick, Pete can feel his skin prickle. He bites his bottom lip hard, almost hard enough to break skin, and worries it between his teeth. He tries to go back to counting the tiles. Pete's avoiding the subject.

Gerard heaves a sigh and flicks his unfinished cigarette out the window before slumping down the wall so he's sitting next to Pete.  
Pete's about to ask how Gerard even knows he's avoiding Patrick when the dark haired kid pipes up,  
"Urie was telling me 'bout the whole situation in our drama class. Said he visited you yesterday and you were acting all weird."  
Gerard pauses and glances at Pete from the corner of his eye. Pete doesn't say anything, just continues to stare down at the floor, so Gerard continues.  
"Why's that? How come you didn't wanna hang around Patrick? Brendon said he's a nice dude."  
Pete likes Gerard, but he wishes he would shut up. Pete liked when they were talking about feminism and school. He doesn't like talking about this.  
Pete rolls his eyes up to the ceiling and tugs self-consciously at his hoodie sleeves-- a habit he picked up on since the crash.  
For a moment, the memory of the crash flashes across his mind. The glass shattering, slicing up his arms and torso, nearly flying out the busted windshield from the force of the collision.  
Pete was unconscious by the time the ambulances showed up but he swears he remembers Patrick laying on the asphalt a ways away from the taxi, seemingly lifeless, pool of blood skirting his head.  
Pete hadn't gone flying out of his car. Patrick had, though.  
Pete lets out a shaky breath and balls his hands into fists, scrubbing harshly at his eyes. Finally, Pete mutters,  
"Would you really want to try and stay in contact with someone you nearly murdered?"  
and Gerard is quiet. Really quiet. And Pete's surprised no one's walked into this bathroom yet, surprised a nurse hasn't smelled the cigarette smoke.  
Pete almost wishes someone would walk in so this conversation could stop.

Pete takes in a deep breath and drops his hands from his eyes, mustering up the courage to look directly at Gerard.  
"I ruined a part of him, Gerard. I took away years of his life."  
Pete swallows hard and keeps his gaze on Gerard, watching as his jaw flexes a little. He looks deep in thought.  
"...I don't deserve to be around him. That's why. That's why I ignore him, and avoid him, and..."  
Pete stops himself and closes his eyes tight, bangs the back of his head a little too rough against the wall. He wants to cry, but he's not going to. He needs to get a hold on himself.

After a few moments Pete can speak again. He at least likes that Gerard waits for his answer; he doesn't butt in, try to make Pete figure out this disaster any quicker.  
Maybe Pete will never figure things out.  
He probably never will.  
This whole thing is too messy to keep track of.  
Pete slowly opens his eyes and keeps them half-lidded as he brings his head down, cracking his cut up knuckles and murmuring softly,  
"The only reason Patrick wants to be my friend is because he doesn't know it's me. He doesn't know I hurt him. If he knew, he wouldn't like me, wouldn't wanna see me, or get to know me. He thinks I'm someone I'm not."  
and Pete's experiencing the familiar feeling of wanting to disappear. He feels minuscule after talking-- like he's this little thing Gerard's observing under a microscope.

Everything is silent, and Pete thinks maybe the conversation is over. He's considering just getting up and leaving when finally Gerard, tone calm and collected, says,  
"You can't run from your problems, Wentz."  
and apparently they're not done talking because now Gerard's crawling in front of Pete so they're sitting facing each other. Gerard looks like he has something he really wants to say. Pete lets him talk because he doesn't know what he's doing with his own life anymore, and this boy looks like he knows what he's doing, and Pete's willing to cling to his confidence to try and claim some.  
"If you don't tell him, someone's gonna tell him eventually, right? Maybe his friends, or his family? Hm?"  
Gerard leans his hand over to pat at Pete's knee in an almost soothing, comforting fashion.  
"Imagine if you were Patrick. Okay? Close your eyes."  
Pete has to harshly bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from deliberately rolling his eyes. Gerard catches onto that and swats Pete's knee, lifting a brow and muttering, "I said close 'em, asshole."  
Pete heaves a sigh and settles more against the wall, letting his eyes slip shut.  
"Okay. So, you're Patrick now. Imagine finding out from someone else, someone who wasn't even involved in the incident, that you're the one who crashed into him. Imagine finding out from, like... A newspaper. Something really impersonal like that. A fuckin' newspaper. Would you want that if you were Patrick?"  
Pete swallows around a lump forming in his throat and closes his eyes tighter. Gerard's patting his knee again, soft and slow.  
The action feels so warm, and Gerard's words are cutting Pete like tiny little daggers of guilt-- and Pete definitely wants to cry.  
Gerard knows he does, so he speaks a little kinder, a little gentler.  
"C'mon. Open your eyes, now."

Pete's eyes drift open to find Gerard staring intently at him.  
He's not judging. He's trying to help.  
Pete lets his guard down a little.  
He doesn't cry, though. He won't cry. Not in front of Gerard, not in front of anyone.  
Gerard lets a few moments pass before speaking up again,  
"You can't run from Patrick and pretend this didn't happen. It happened, and it fuckin' sucks, but that's something you gotta own up to, and you need to tell Patrick what happened. He needs to hear it from you-- not from something, or someone else."  
Pete nods numbly and brings his gaze away from Gerard, letting his eyes fall to his hospital sweats.  
Pete gets it. He knows Gerard is right.  
And for once, Pete isn't trying to fight what he knows is right.  
Pete, albeit painfully, is learning to accept what he has to do.

Pete leaves the bathroom that night at 3:30 AM with a weird sense of purpose about him. A small inkling of courage.

That feeling of purpose sticks with him until the next day, until Patrick's cornered him unexpectedly in an empty hall, and his eyes are wide behind his glasses, and Pete's not ready for this, not ready for Patrick to be this close,

not ready for the way his voice quavers as he spits out in a broken tone,

"Why don't you like me? What did I do to you?  
Why won't you just talk to me?"


	5. The little things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO this chapter is definitely not as long as I wanted, but I wanted to give you guys something! I promise to have the next chapter up as soon as possible!~

Pete's been terrified before; it's an emotion he's oddly familiar with.  
Fear is like his old, childhood best friend.  
He was absolutely scared shitless that time in third grade he gave his first Valentine ever to Suzy Bryan. Pete was so nervous in his button down and stupid sneakers his mom had picked out for him-- he thought he was going to puke. He was mortified when he stood atop his friend's rooftop at 17 with an open umbrella in his hand, ready to jump off into some bushes in exchange for five dollars and the last slice of pizza. Pete still remembers the way the crowd of teenage boys gathered in his friend's front lawn and cheered;  
jump, jump, jump.  
But nothing-- really, nothing, could have prepared Pete for the gut-wrenching, terrible feeling that settled deep in the pit of his stomach as Patrick cornered him.  
It's not like Pete is scared of Patrick.  
Pete is scared of the words dancing on the tip of his tongue; the words he should have said to Patrick the moment they met eyes that night in the cafeteria.  
I am disaster, and you are the victim.  
You are the blue eyed boy, I am the suicidal car crash.  
Fear me. It's for your own good.

"Why don't you like me? What did I do to you?  
Why won't you just talk to me?"

Patrick's usually happy, smiling mouth is twisted into something like a frown, tight and unfamiliar looking upon his pale, soft face.  
And for a moment, through Pete's haze of anxiety and guilt, he thinks about kissing Patrick. Right then, right there.  
Pete wants to capture the frown from his face and make sure he never, ever has to wear something like that again.  
But this is reality, and that't not what's bound to happen.  
Pete's not meant to make Patrick happy; he's meant to stay away.

"It's not what you did to me."  
The words come out much quieter than Pete wanted. The words are almost a whisper, like Pete wasn't quite ready to say them yet.  
His explanation to Patrick was well-rehearsed, something he'd thought about since him and Gerard had that little talk. But, like a tense actor on the opening night of his very first performance, he's forgotten his lines:  
It's not what you did to me, it's what I did to you.

Patrick's not happy with the answer. The younger boy backs off a little and crosses his arms against his chest.  
Leave it to Pete to focus on the little details to distract himself from the current situation; he's noticed a small button with David Bowie's face on it pinned to the chest pocket of Patrick's jean jacket.  
Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?

"Okay, so if I didn't do anything, then what? How come we can't be friends?"  
Patrick definitely isn't sounding as angry as he did just moments ago. That soft sadness is back-- the kind of sadness Pete used to feel before things got so out of control.  
Now everything Pete feels is abrasive, harsh.  
Pete tries to control his breathing through his nostrils as he tears his eyes away from the Bowie button. He looks to Patrick, whose pink lips are settled into a straight line.  
Patrick seems to flush with Pete looking directly at him. He ducks his head, fingers going up to fiddle with the ends of his fair hair.  
This is definitely the first time Pete's seen Patrick without a hat. Pete's distracted by the details again.  
It's the little things that get to Pete. It's always the little things. It's always the little things he notices that no one else ever does that sometimes keep him up at night. Pete knows too much and he never stops noticing. It's a curse.

"I wanna... I wanna be friends with you, y'know?"  
Despite Patrick's head being down, Pete can see the way he nervously licks his lips. Patrick takes in a deep breath and then, with the smallest voice Pete's ever heard, he mumbles,  
"Your friend Brendon likes me... Why can't you like me?"  
and that hurts more than anything Pete's felt.  
Pete does like Patrick. He likes him more than he's supposed to.

And this is where Pete's supposed to deliver his lines-- the lines about being no good for Patrick. Pete's hands are trembling, and his mouth is open, but where are his words? Where are his fucking words? Pete's eyes start to dance about the hallway, and how the fuck is everything so quiet?  
Where is everyone?  
How is this happening in broad daylight? Where are the doctors rushing to help their patients, the nurses bustling about to get lunch trays to peoples rooms?  
How is it that the moment Pete most wants to be interrupted, there's no one around to stop him?  
Where the hell was this kind of stillness when he was trying to kill himself?

Jump, jump, jump.  
Tell him, tell him, tell him.

"...We can be friends."  
That's definitely not what Pete meant to say.  
Pete hates himself. He really does.  
He only has a few moments to hate himself because the way Patrick looks at him commands his undivided attention;  
Patrick looks... Happy. So happy. Way too happy for someone whose just made friends with one of the dumbest, most reckless people alive. Of course, Patrick doesn't know that. He's completely perked up and he looks so bright, so attentive, so... Beautiful. So strangely placed in the washed out hospital.  
Patrick could probably light up the whole god damn city of Chicago.  
"We can really be friends?"  
Patrick's trying to kill Pete. Pete lets out a shaky breath and nods his head, "Yeah, dude. We can really be friends."  
Pete tries not to think about how both Brendon and Gerard would kill him for being such an absolute coward. 

...That almost doesn't matter, though. Not right now. Patrick's beaming, he's radiating. Pete did that. Pete has Patrick buzzing.  
Pete didn't know he could do that.  
Suddenly, the lines between right and wrong are completely blurred, and Pete's beaming right back.  
After that, Patrick doesn't even dig for an excuse as to why Pete's been treating him so poorly; he just accepts that Pete's agreed to be his friend, and God, that's really not right, but Pete's not thinking straight. When is he ever thinking straight?

All Pete knows is that Patrick's inviting him back to his hospital room to hang out, and Patrick's ecstatic, and Pete's not supposed to be, but he kind of is, too. 

As they're walking away together, Patrick's arm just brushing ever so lightly against Pete's sleeve, a doctor bounds through the hallway straight past them.  
Pete's noticing the little details.  
He's noticing that if that doctor would have come just moments before, he might not be walking with Patrick right now.  
It's always the little things.


End file.
